


Happy

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autumn, Belly Kink, Chubby Dean Winchester, Hand Jobs, M/M, Retirement, Schmoop, Stuffing, Weight Gain, curtain!fic, numbers kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: The boys have retired and settled into an unexpected life, wherein Dean is bigger than he's ever been and Sam couldn't love him more. Also, there are fallen leaves and pumpkin spice lattes and all is right with the world. Unapologetic autumn p*rn.





	Happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [compo67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/gifts).



> Based on this [Fall Drabble Meme](https://chubwinchesters.dreamwidth.org/2751.html) prompt: "This is my favorite time of year for so many reasons. I would love to see many of those reasons stuffed into Obese!Dean. Give me hot chocolate, comfy sweaters, leaves changing, the smell of cinnamon, apples, caramel, and yes, even pumpkin spice lattes.
> 
> Would /love/ if this was Wincest. I am sweet on a very attentive and loving Sam. I could use some fluff and sweetness. The bigger Dean is, the better. ;)"

Dean admires himself in the mirror—well, what little he can see of himself—taking a few cumbersome steps backward to fit the wide expanse of his middle in the reflection. A few more steps, then a few more, until he bumps against the bed and can't get any farther back. And he smirks. 

“Now _that's_ a fine specimen of a man,” he says smugly, last year's sweatshirt nowhere close to fitting. He's gotten massive, there's no ands, ifs, though plenty of butt, about it. The sweatshirt hits him mid-paunch and squeezes his arms like sausage casings. A soft spill of belly balloons over jeans that are probably a size too small, but he kinda likes the way they pinch and show just the tiniest hint of ass crack if he's not careful. What can he say; it's a thing. The breeze in the back, the knowing that he's expanded out of yet another wardrobe, no desire for a belt (for reasons that Sam appreciates too) … it all makes him feel satisfied and happy and just the tiniest bit horny. (Sam may have to dig for it, but Dean's dick is still perfectly zealous under all the pudge.)

He pivots around to check his profile, hands cruising over his bare, stretch-marked flanks, and absently wonders just how much heft he's put on since his last weigh-in. From the looks of it, enough to feed a family of four for a year.

Last time, they had to make a trip to the farm store to use the scale, and suffer the unguarded gawking of Mrs. Bullock at register #4, but Sam was all about the numbers. Dean doesn't give two shits as to how much he actually weighs, but Sam gets his rocks off on watching the numbers climb and murmuring in Dean's ear, things like “Holy shit, you're huge,” and “How does it feel to know you'll never see your feet again?” and “You'd look even more amaaaazing if you were just a little bit bigger, you know?” If memory serves, he'd been hovering somewhere around 430. And to be perfectly honest, there was something about those purred admonishments and Mrs. Bullock's raised eyebrows that made Dean flush and sweat and goddamned hungry. 

In fact, he's hungry now. Sam has been out front raking leaves all morning, and it's high time they grabbed some lunch. Dean pushes off the bed with a creak and a groan, and lumbers his way to the front of the house. 

Sam looks up when he hears the screen door screech open, his cheeks rosy and an errant leaf stuck in his hair. He lets loose with a wolf whistle before he breaks into a wicked smile. 

“Oh, shut up,” Dean snarks. He pauses at the edge of the porch to catch his breath, one hand habitually coming to rest on his gut. “You like this, do you? Well, you gotta pay for it.”

“Is that right?” Sam throws his rake to the ground and feigns a serious expression. Challenge accepted. He stalks across their big front yard to the bottom of the stairs and shoves his cold hands up under Dean's shirt.

To which Dean swears and forces his middle forward, plowing into Sam, bullying into him as he steps down. Sam is laughing all the while, and Dean loves that sound more than apple pie. He loves it when Sam's hands warm up and palm all the way across his heavy midsection, grabbing fistfuls of fat, kneading and hoisting and jostling.

They don't have any neighbors to catch them as they kiss, as Sam takes unofficial measurements with the span of his long arms and a darkening of his eyes.

“I'm starving,” Dean says between kisses, Sam's cheeks in his hands and Sam's hands cupping Dean's soft chest, lingering over his nipples to the point of distraction.

“So'm I...” Sam says, nibbling at Dean's stubbly double-chin.

It's tempting to let Sam have his way here and now but good things come to those who wait, and Dean wants his belly full almost as much as he wants to get Sam back into bed. No reason Dean can't have both. “Food first. One appetite at a time, champ.” 

Sam practically hisses in displeasure, but concedes. “So we going out to eat, then?'

“Yep. It's Octoberfest, baby. Beer. Brats. Big pretzels. And your stupid pumpkin spiced lattes.”

“Oh, you like 'em too.”

“Whatever.”

“Deal.”

They took the new SUV, since Dean had sadly outgrown Baby and now she lived in their garage. As it was, Dean needed a seat belt extender, and he missed the Impala something fierce but the SUV had a heater in the bucket seats, which was pretty damned nice.

Destination: Shutlz's Bier Garten in Everton, for a good half dozen brats, sauerkraut, wienerschnitzel and, of course, beer. They sit outside on the patio to lounge in the autumn sun and take advantage of the more generous seating. Dean manages to tuck most of his gut under the sweatshirt, feeling more than a little like a king-sized overstuffed pillow, but by the time he finishes lunch and adds a heaping plate of spaetzle—because who doesn't like noodles and butter and cheese?—he has to free the beast. He creeps the sweatshirt up and leans back, puffing his cheeks in a satisfied sigh.

Sam's eyes zero in on the exposed flesh. When the waitress stops by, pointedly avoiding Dean's stomach in all it's swollen glory, Sam orders another round of beers in those ridiculously enormous steins. And the little shit makes Dean drink most of his, because designated driver and all. Dean knows it's just a ruse and he doesn't even care. They chat about fixing the leak in the roof before the weather turns grim, about football, and the possibility of actually getting trick-or-treaters this year, even though they live pretty far off of any beaten path. They'll buy candy anyways. By the time Dean has drained the last drop of beer, he's buzzing and stifling burps, distinctly bloated and very much looking forward to getting back to the car.

He might even be waddling a tad more than necessary, because he knows Sam is watching him sidelong. He adjusts his waistband to try to relieve the pinching, rocking back as they stroll. Doesn't much help. Sam slings his arm over Dean's shoulders and just hums.

There's no way he's shoehorning himself behind the steering wheel, so Dean tosses Sam the keys. By the time they get settled into the SUV, Dean is making needy little whines. Sam isn't falling for it. Yet. It's their little game. Sam knows damned well what Dean can pack into that amazing belly, and they aren't quite there yet.

“That the best you got?” he says blithely as they rumble out of the parking lot. Every bump makes Dean's gut bounce and ache. 

“Try me.” Stubbornly, Dean won't be bested.

Sam orders PSLs at the Starbucks on their way out of town, a tall for himself and a venti for Dean. Biggest damned coffee Dean has ever all year. Usually he's a black coffee guy, but Sam gives Dean The Eyes, the ones that melt hearts and defy rejection, and Dean can do nothing but drink the whole thing. And okay, pumpkin spice lattes are pretty fucking delicious, after all.

But now he's way full. Painfully so. Sam's still smiling as he drives, periodically looking over at Dean and letting his gaze roam over the entirety of Dean's body. Dean grunts and his pants give up the ghost with a sharp pop. He fishes beneath a mound of flesh, creeps his zipper down, and feels marginally better. His gut spills across this thighs, inches from the dashboard. The seatbelt cuts across his chest between bulges of fat. He should be embarrassed. He should wonder what the fuck he's doing to himself, but Sam reaches a hand across the seats and gently strokes down Dean's sloshing middle.

Dean knows exactly why he's doing what he's doing.

He needs Sam's hands on him. Bad. And he needs to not worry about hunting or other people or monsters one second longer. He needs to feel like too much of a good thing. Sam's good thing.

They pull into the parking lot of Harvey's Seed and Feed, and exchange knowing grins. Dean's sweating and chafing by the time they reach the industrial scale behind register #4. Mrs. Bullock purses her lips and clucks in disapproval. Sam shrugs and mouths, “I know, right?” to her, while Dean coughs and blushes and clutches his swaying, ponderous gut. Puts on a show for her, and sure, for Sam too. Sam holds Dean's elbow as he steps on the scale platform, and they both watch the old-fashioned arrow sweep across the face of the scale in a wide arc. Bouncing above the 550 mark, down to 480-ish, back up to finally settle a hair over 500. 

Five. Hundred. Pounds. 

Dean isn't quite sure how to process the information. This is what obesity is, what gluttony feels like. He tugs at the bite of his collar, and if not for the overhang of his massive middle, he might be three-times as abashed by the fact he will never fasten these 56-inch-waist jeans again. They were too tight across his thighs and barely covered his ass as it was, but now, not a snowball's chance in hell of staying in his closet. He wants to be mortified, _should_ be mortified, but somehow, when Sam sinks his chin into Dean's soft shoulder and whispers “You are too, too much, big brother. But never enough for me. God fucking damn, look at you. I love you.”, Dean can't believe his luck. He feels hands on the bulge of his love handles as Sam toes the back of the scale. The dial inches up slowly.

“Just think...” Sam says, his breath warm and pumpkin-spice scented on Dean's cheek.

Dean shifts and grumbles a moment of discomfort. “As long as—”

“I'll take good care of you.”

Great. Now Dean's overstuffed and hard as hell. 

They manage to make it home without getting a ticket. The sun has warmed the air to Indian summer levels, and as soon as Dean pours himself out of the car, Sam is curled around him like a spiderweb, hands jiggling and pawing and pushing Dean into the pile of leaves they left in the front yard. It's itchy but dry and thick, as Dean reclines back and Sam peels up Dean's sweatshirt. Sam drapes his weight across Dean's stomach and Dean has to moan kisses into Sam's eager mouth. He bites his way across Dean's plump cheeks, chest, his mountainous middle, before levering a shoulder under Dean's paunch and hauling it up to get at his cock, which has been stiff for longer than Dean cares to admit. Dean can't see what's going on under there, but it's firm and tight and feels an awful lot like Sam's nimble fingers, the curl of his palm coursing up and down his dick. As Sam spits and works his magic, he keeps shoving into Dean's gut, the whole sway of the rhythm sending luxurious ripples through the adipose layers, rocking him like the ocean. 

Dean comes in a lip-biting, star-seeing shudder, moaning out loud to the clear, blue sky and leafless branches of the old oak tree. Eventually, Sam's rumpled head pops up, flushed and grinning, over the crest of Dean's middle. He strips off his flannel and uses it to clean up.

“Get over here,” Dean chuckles, still winded. Sam flops next to Dean in a puff of leaves, absurdly attractive with his foxy eyes and sinewy arms and the shots of premature silver through his hair. Seeing what they've seen will do that to you, even though for whatever reason, Dean's barely gone gray. He's got the crow's feet, though.

Sam sets a hand over Dean's heaving chest, presumably feeling for the pounding heartbeat. “You okay?”

“You took care of me, all right, boy-o.” They laugh like mockingbirds until they can't anymore.

And then they listen to the wind together, Sam nuzzling into Dean's neck.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

Sam rears up a bit, eyes hooded. “Are you happy?”

Dean doesn't answer straight away, because that would be too easy. The quick response would be a resounding yes, and it wouldn't be a lie. But see, happy didn't quite cover it. Happy was a perfectly grilled burger or winning ten bucks on a scratch-off or getting Baby out just to polish her to a diamond shine.

This here, what he had with Sam? Was bigger than happy.

Sam blinks and quirks a crooked smile. Dean looks him in the eye, wondering at all the weird shit in his brother's big brain. He runs a plump finger over an old, white scar on Sam's forehead, and sighs.

“God, yes.”

  


  



End file.
